


a man rides the bus

by thewightknight



Category: Paterson (2016), The Little Stranger (2018)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, Healing, a story in verse, kylux adjacent, soft but not fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 13:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: Paterson knew his regulars. He might not know their names, but he always listened, so he knew them. Or he knew all of them except for one.The passenger with no name had brilliant red hair and a mustache, both precisely trimmed. He wore suits every day, and sat with his knees together, holding his leather bag on his lap. He got off at the stop next to the hospital. Was he an administrator, Paterson wondered? He didn’t seem like a doctor, or at least not like the few doctors Paterson had seen in his life.





	a man rides the bus

**Author's Note:**

> Set in some nebulous time which isn't really the 1950s but isn't the current century either - author abusing her prerogative.

Paterson knew his regulars. He might not know their names, but he always listened, so he knew them. Or he knew all of them except for one.

The passenger with no name had brilliant red hair and a mustache, both precisely trimmed. He wore suits every day, and sat with his knees together, holding his leather bag on his lap. He got off at the stop next to the hospital. Was he an administrator, Paterson wondered? He didn’t seem like a doctor, or at least not like the few doctors Paterson had seen in his life.

_a man rides the bus on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays_

The man never spoke, and even if he shared his seat with another passenger, it seemed like he still sat by himself. He looked out the window of the bus every day, but it didn’t seem like he saw the buildings they passed. His mind always seemed to be elsewhere.

He wasn’t impolite, not at all. He nodded in greeting every morning when he boarded, and again when he got off at his stop. He gave up his seat to ladies, and the elderly, when the bus grew full. He kept his long legs tucked in when he did sit. A suggestion of a smile played at the corners of his lips from time to time, a hit of a scowl at others, but on the whole, he kept his emotions close. He was an enigma.

_a man rides the bus on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays_

_he stands, or sits, in his own space_

Paterson’s route began at the edges of his residential neighborhood and wound its way downtown. The stop where his mysterious fare boarded was on the fringes, close to the station. He waited at the stop outside a row of tenement houses, newly built in the post-war boom. Most of the people who lived here were young, and newly married. The red-haired man appeared to be neither. Or at least he seemed about Paterson’s age, and wore no ring. That might not mean anything. Depending on the work he did, a ring might be a hindrance. The bag could be samples of some sort, or a doctor’s kit, or hold tools of the trade. He didn’t look like a tradesman, though, not with those delicate-looking hands. The slenderness of his fingers was reflected in the rest of him, and he moved with a casual grace, swaying with the movements of the bus on those times when he was forced to stand.

In brief moments when he could take his eyes from the road, Paterson watched him. Those moments told him nothing about the man. In all the weeks since he’d begun taking the bus, Paterson hadn’t learned one thing about him.

_a man rides the bus on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays_

_he stands, or sits, in his own space_

_a quiet bubble in the bustle of the world_

It had been late summer, the first time he saw the red-haired man. It was now almost winter, with Thanksgiving fast approaching. Paterson always worked on Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas day as well. It was good money, and they always seemed to be walking a precarious line, so the bonus each year came as a blessing. It let them indulge a bit every holiday.

No one stood at the first few stops, but when he approached the tenement row, there he was. Bundled in a wool coat and hat, with a scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face, Paterson still knew him. Grey green eyes flickered past him as he got his usual nod.

“Working today?” Paterson asked as the other settled in his usual seat, looking a bit lost without any other passengers.

“People still get sick during the holidays.”

The voice surprised him, deeper than he expected, and accented with crisp syllables. And now he had one mystery finally revealed.

“You’re a doctor, then?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to exhaust the supply of words that could be exchanged between them. There were a few other passengers on the route, three on the bus when he dropped his doctor off outside the hospital.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said as the doctor disembarked.

After a brief hesitation, the other responded. “And to you as well.”

_he stands, or sits, in his own space_

_a quiet bubble in the bustle of the world_

_he rides by himself even when the bus is full_

He’s there again on the day after Thanksgiving, and others are on the bus again as well, and it’s as if they had never spoken the day before. A nod of the head and the doctor went to his usual seat. The greeting he had planned froze on Paterson’s lips and he nodded back, closing the door behind him.

It began to snow the next morning as he walked to work. Before he left the depot Paterson checked the chains on his tires. The snow had turned the world white and grey, which made a certain pair of green eyes and a set of red brows even more vivid.

Marvin hated the snow, but he hated not getting his evening walks even more. He shuffled along beside Paterson as they made their nightly trip. On evenings like this, when the weather turned sour, Doc would let Paterson bring Marvin in while he had his beer. The dog would snuffle and snort at his feet, leaning up against the bar as if he’d been drinking too.

That Saturday evening there was something in the bar. Paterson froze in the doorway of the bar, half in, half out, caught by surprise.

“Stop letting in all the cold air, Paterson!” Doc shouted, and he moved forward, each step taking him closer to the bar and the red-haired man who sat in the stool next to the one he usually took. Paterson sat down on the other end of the bar, half wanting, half afraid the other man would notice him. Doc’s eyebrows shot up at the change in his pattern, but brought him his beer without a word.

Elegant fingers wrapped around a half empty pint glass, glaringly pale against the deep brown liquid within. His red hair blazed in the dim light. The chatter of the other patrons washed around and about him and he sat as he did on the bus, as if he were the only person here. He finished his beer and left without acknowledging Paterson. Marvin whined as he passed, his whole body vibrating in place of the tail he didn’t have to wag. The door closed behind him and Paterson drank his beer even though he had no taste for it this evening.

_he stands, or sits, in his own space_

_a quiet bubble in the bustle of the world_

_he rides by himself even when the bus is full_

_alone in the crowd wherever he goes_

That Monday, when the doctor mounted the steps, his step hitched and he stared at Paterson for a moment before giving his usual nod. Paterson smiled in response, breaking the pattern. The man was still staring when he sat, brow wrinkled. The week passed and a spark of recognition lit his face every morning, but he said nothing. After that first day he returned to staring out the window, the intensity of his gaze boring through the buildings past which he rode.

_he rides by himself even when the bus is full_

_alone in the crowd wherever he goes_

_what passes outside the windows for him isn’t what others see_

The next Saturday he’s there again, on the same stool, the one next Paterson’s usual. This time his eyes meet Paterson’s in the mirror above the bar. Marvin sees him too and drags Paterson over to him. The dog props himself up, front paws on the brass ring at the base of the stool, and whines and wheezes up at him.

“You’re the bus driver,” he says as he succumbed to Marvin’s dubious charms, leaning over and scratching the dog between his ears.

“Well, I’m a bus driver,” Paterson said as he sat, one over from his usual place. His regular seat separated them now, pattern broken yet again. Doc brought his beer over without a word but his eyebrows spoke volumes. They drank their beer together in a silence both strained and companionable.

Doc gave him a window of opportunity.

“Doing the usual for Christmas, Paterson?”

“Yeah.”

“What about you?” Doc addressed the stranger, who blinked at him, seeming to have to reach back to remember the words just spoken.

“Working.”

“Well ain’t the two of you a pair.” Doc shook his head and wandered off to the other end of the bar, wiping down the bar as he went.

“Well, people do still get sick over the holidays,” Paterson said, raising his beer.

“That they do.”

That ran them out of words again. The other man resumed his staring, looking through the mirror over the bar as he drank. He finished his pint before Paterson did and left, stooping to pat Marvin on the head this time as he passed.

_he rides by himself even when the bus is full_

_alone in the crowd wherever he goes_

_what passes outside the windows for him isn’t what others see_

_it’s as if he’s looking for something he’s lost_

“Good morning,” Paterson said on Monday.

“And to you,” the doctor replied. And he smiled, the smile reaching his eyes. The smile stayed on his face for the ride, and he nodded and said “Thank you,” when they reached his stop.

_what passes outside the windows for him isn’t what others see_

_it’s as if he’s looking for something he’s lost_

_or someone_

He was there again the next Saturday, occupying the same stool. Paterson sat where he had the last Saturday, in what he’d now come to think of as his weekend spot. This time the doctor’s eyes seem more focused, at least at first. It looks like he’s scanning the various pictures and clippings Doc has pinned to the wall behind the bar. When he spoke, it took Paterson by surprise.

“Your name is Paterson.”

It was spoken as a statement, but he answered.

“Yeah. Like the city.”

“Like the city,” the man repeated. He surprised Paterson again, holding out his hand. “Faraday.”

His hand was cool, a bit damp from the condensation on his glass, and his skin soft, but it was a firm grip, a good handshake.

Casting about for something to say, Paterson settled on a safe topic. “When did you move here?”

“At the end of summer.”

“Must have been a big change for you.”

“Yes. Quite the change.”

Marvin panted away happily between them as they finished their pints. Faraday finished his first and when he left, he paused before saying, “I hope you enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“Thank you. See you Monday.”  
  


_it’s as if he’s looking for something he’s lost_

_or someone_

_when he talks it’s as if he’s weighing every possible word before they leave his lips_

When the doctor - Faraday - boarded the bus on Monday he smiled again. They exchanged good mornings. Faraday took his usual seat, but today his gaze seemed more focused, less lost. Paterson watched him watch the other passengers for several minutes before Faraday’s gaze took on that faraway look.

When he disembarked Paterson wished him a good day and got a twist of the mouth that wasn’t quite another smile. “As well as a day can be good at a hospital.” Each word seemed to be drawn out of him, an effort for every syllable. But the twist turned into a wistful grin, a smile so sweet it took Paterson’s breath away.

He didn’t speak for the next several days, returning Paterson’s greeting with only another of those sad smiles.

  


_when he talks it’s as if he’s weighing every possible word before they leave his lips_

_like each syllable might be a part of the thing he is looking for_

  
  
The next day, a Thursday, in the middle of his route, he saw a little boy in his mirror. The boy sat in one of the center-facing seats, legs dangling above the floor. He had brilliant red hair, the same shade as Faraday’s.

A boy riding the bus by himself wasn’t remarkable, but not in the middle of the day during the week. He wasn’t wearing a coat despite the winter chill, clad only in a tweed jacket and matching knickers. None of this was what was truly odd about his appearance, though. Paterson remembered the faces of everyone who rode his bus, but this boy? Paterson didn’t remember him boarding. 

Approaching the next stop, Paterson’s attention was drawn to the new passengers as they passed him, each dropping their nickels in the box. When he looked back in the mirror, the little boy was gone.

He was still thinking about the boy when Faraday boarded the next morning, thinking about it so much that he didn’t give Faraday his usual greeting when the doctor mounted the steps. He kept glancing back in the mirror, more often than usual, as if the little boy would suddenly appear again with his wishing for it.

It took him by surprise, then, when Faraday broke their routine that morning.

“See you at the pub tomorrow night?” he asked as he was leaving, each word seemingly drawn out of him by an invisible force.

Paterson blinked at him in shock before nodding.

“Um. Yeah.”

“All right then.” Faraday hesitated for an instant longer before exiting, leaving Paterson staring after him, long enough that the passengers still on the bus began to stir.

_when he talks it’s as if he’s weighing every possible word before they leave his lips_

_like each syllable might be a part of the thing he is looking for_

_and if he speaks them then he will be even more lost_

  
  
The next morning, Laura was up early. Ever since the Marvin Incident, as it had become called, she had won out, and so once a month she would laboriously hand-copy his new work from his book. These hand-written pages were then lovingly stored in a metal box she’d bought expressly for this purpose, along with his first new book. That book, with its sheets of hand-made paper, had filled up quickly and he’d bought himself another journal before he’d reached the last page.

Every month he watched Laura at her work. He still felt odd about it. Even though he read most of his poems to her, having someone else devote so much attention the words he wrote felt strange. Invasive, almost. He’d never been able to deny her anything, though, and she had wanted to do this for him so much. And she had been right. A pang pulled at his heart when thought of his first book and all those lost words it had contained

When he sat down across from her with his glass full of cereal, she looked up, a crease between her eyebrows, the tip of her pencil clenched between her teeth.

“This one,” she started, and he looked down to where her finger lay on the page. “He seems so lonely, the way you write him.”

“He is. Or at least he was. He seems to be getting better. I think? Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Maybe you can write him better.”

“I don’t think my poems can do that.”

  
_when he talks it’s as if he’s weighing every possible word before they leave his lips_

_like each syllable might be a part of the thing he is looking for_

_and if he speaks them then he will be even more lost_

_when he does speak it’s as much to himself as you_

  
For the fourth Saturday in a row, Paterson found Faraday at the bar, sitting in the same seat as previous weeks. He looked up when the door opened and Paterson didn’t think he imagined the slight upturn of his mouth under his moustache.

Doc had decorated for the holidays. Green boughs were draped across the shelves and over the mirror, hung with silver and red glass balls. Even in the dim light they seemed to bring out the green in Faraday’s eyes.

Instead of a pint, this evening Faraday cradled a glass tumbler of amber liquid between his elegant fingers. He took a small sip, his tongue darting out to catch a drop that tried to escape, and his eyelashes fluttered as he swallowed.

His usual pint appeared on the bar as Paterson approached. Doc had adjusted to his new Saturday night seat. Sliding onto the stool, he nodded in thanks.

“Christmas,” he heard Faraday mutter before he took another drink. Paterson tried to decide if that had been directed at him or not.

“We always celebrate on the day after, since I work,” he said at last.

Faraday’s eyes turned to him, unfocused at first but then centering in on Paterson’s. “Ah. Boxing Day,” he said after a few moments.

_What was Boxing Day?_ Paterson thought. He started to ask, but his mouth had other plans.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you don’t have plans.”

The invitation passed through his lips seemingly of its own volition. Doc must have overheard, because he nearly dropped the glass he was cleaning. Blinking, shocked himself at his unaccustomed boldness, Paterson covered his surprise by taking a swallow of beer. Faraday favored him with a long look before letting his eyes drop down to own his glass.

“That is kind of you to offer, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“No intrusion. Come if you like.” He always had pencils in his pockets, although he never brought his journal to the bar. Scribbling the address on a napkin, he shoved it across the bar at Faraday. “We have dinner at six, and then we’ll walk around the neighborhood afterwards. Laura likes to see the decorations. You’re welcome to come, for both.”

“Laura?” Faraday asked.

“My wife. She loves company.”

Faraday seemed to mull this over for the rest of the ride, even more lost in thought than usual.

That night he broke the news to Laura.

“I invited him over for Christmas. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Him?” Laura asked.

“The doctor.”

“The one in your poem?”

“Yeah, the one in my poem.”

“That’s nice, dear. Do you think he likes Jell-O salad?”

_when he does speak it’s as much to himself as you_

_and even though he never says the words you can hear the question_

There were nine days until Christmas, ten until the day after Christmas. Boxing Day. One more Saturday between now and then.

The week progressed as weeks normally do. He exchanged nods with Faraday each morning, and sometimes smiles as well. Saturday found him antsier than usual and he left for the bar a bit early. Doc looked at him when he walked in, looked up at the clock, and shot a raised eyebrow in his direction as he drew Paterson’s pint.

It wasn’t until he went to go sit down that he realized Faraday’s usual stool was empty. It remained empty, even though he drank slower than usual. For the first time he contemplated a second pint. That would be foolish, though. He had to work the next morning. He left the last swallow when he rose.

Sunday was spent in a strange limbo. He felt adrift. It didn’t help that he’d slept until almost seven. The break in the routine put him off for the rest of the day. After scratching out a line, and then another, he stared at his notebook with the pencil poised above the page, the words hovering out of reach.

He might have skipped going to the pub that evening, but Marvin started whining, that whuffling wheeze that shook his whole body and the chair beneath him. Within minutes he had his coat on and the dog pulled him out of the house and down the sidewalk.

Despite the day, Sunday and not Saturday, a part of him still expected to walk in and see Faraday at the bar, as if he’d appear to make up for his absence from the previous evening. It still hit him when there was no flash of red at the end of the bar when he arrived. He dawdled over his beer again, but to no avail. The wind cut through his coat as he walked home.

“You’re freezing!” Laura said when she hugged him. “Come!”

Drawing him down onto the sofa next to her, she covered them both with her latest project, a patchwork quilt, made from scraps of fabric and hand painted with the black and white patterns she loved so much.

_when he does speak it’s as much to himself as you_

_and even though he never says the word you can hear the question_

_where am I?_

Monday morning, Paterson woke at one minute after six. He stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, shivering at the cold linoleum under his feet.

It had snowed again while he slept. He trudged through the drifts, cutting a dark swath through the pristine drifts. A new poem started to coalesce, but danced just out of reach when he pulled out his notebook.

A familiar figure stood in the crowd at the bus stop in front of the tenement. When Faraday boarded, he nodded in greeting.

“Picked up extra shifts this week,” Faraday said. “One of my colleagues wanted to visit family.” The person behind Faraday in line shifted on the stairs, waiting for him to get out of the way.

“That’s good. Family.”

The exchange broke loose something within Paterson. That afternoon, as he sat in his bus with the engine idling for warmth, he jotted down the poem that had eluded him earlier.

_snow_

_in crystalline form_

_cold_

_and soft_

_patterns in my mind_

Each night that week another few inches of snow fell. Every morning the ravages of the day before had been softened, muted. In the early mornings it leant the city a ghostly hue.

Christmas morning dawned cold and brisk. Between the bus barn and his first stop, Paterson caught a glimpse of that boy in his mirror again, the red-haired child, still underdressed for the weather. But when he turned to look, the seat was empty, and when checked his mirror again there was no sign of him.

Faraday was the only person waiting at his stop. Paterson had cranked the heat in the bus to compensate for the lack of bodies to warm the interior, and Faraday loosened his scarf as he climbed the steps. As a token to the day, perhaps, he’d exchanged his usual grey wool for bright red. Laura would say it clashed with his hair and skin. Never to his face – she was too polite, too kind for that. He thought it leant the normally somber doctor an almost festive air.

“Merry Christmas,” Paterson said at the same time Faraday greeted him.

“Happy Christmas!”

As his mouth emerged from his wrappings, Paterson saw Faraday was smiling, a tentative expression, as if he was still unused to doing so.

Instead of walking down to his usual seat halfway down the bus, Faraday took the first bench across the aisle from Paterson.

“I was wondering,” Faraday began, then paused.

“Yes?” Paterson prompted.

“I was wondering if the invitation for tomorrow still stands?”

Warmth bloomed in Paterson’s chest. “Yeah. Of course.”

The tentative smile bloomed.

For the first time they talked. It was casual, chatty almost, comparing Christmas traditions, and then family traditions in general. It was as if they filled in all the silences of the past months in the space of twenty minutes.

“Well, here you are,” Paterson said as he pulled up to the hospital.

“Indeed. Tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

_and even though he never says the word you can hear the question_

_where am I? where have I come, out away from everything I’ve ever known?_

Faraday arrived at a quarter til six on the day after Christmas, Boxing Day, as he’d called it, with a brightly wrapped package and a bottle of wine, even though Paterson had insisted he didn’t need to bring anything. Paterson took the wine and the box and Laura helped him with his coat. Once he’d been unwrapped, Laura wrapped her arms around him, and he froze, eyes wide.

“I’m so glad to meet finally you,” Laura said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Had he talked about Faraday that much? Paterson didn’t think so. He had a brief moment of panic, wondering if she’d mention the poem, but she surged on ahead, chattering at Faraday, and had put him at ease in only a few minutes. It was her effortless charm at work. It was one of the things he loved about her.

Laura bustled around the kitchen, insisting that Paterson and Faraday sit at the counter and enjoy the wine. Paterson didn’t normally like wine but he found this one palatable. It was a claret and had a rosy blush to it, unlike the dark reds he’d disliked before. Paterson rolled it around on his tongue and the flavors teased at him. There was a poem in that bottle.

Faraday picked at the relish tray, favoring the olives over everything else. He listened, blinking, head cocked to one side, as Laura went on and on. Bit by bit, she started asking him questions, and Faraday’s life began to take shape between them.

“What brings you here, then?” she asked.

“I was looking for something different. A change of scenery, after ….” Faraday trailed off, staring into the wine in his glass as if he could find what he was looking for there. After an uncomfortable silence, he continued. “I was engaged, and she passed away. After she died, I served as caretaker for her estate, but there was a fire. It seemed like a good idea after that, to go someplace else and start anew.”

_and even though he never says the word you can hear the question_

_where am I? where have I come, out away from everything I’ve ever known?_

_and you come to realize he’s left a part of himself somewhere else_

A pressure had begun to build in Paterson’s ears, as if all the world were bearing down on them, concentrating all its attention on this room in this house in this small town of no consequence except for the luck of some of the people born here. It seemed as if they hung on a string drawn tight, and someone had plucked it. It built and built until it seemed they all might explode for it, and then Laura, being Laura, broke the tension.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh you poor dear,” and then she rounded the counter and hugged Faraday again, bestowing a kiss on his temple. He seemed less startled this time but remained stiff where he sat. “Well, the circumstances that led you here weren’t the best but still I’m glad you could spend the day with us. And you’re welcome here any time.”

And just like that, the pressure was gone. There was no sudden pop, no soundless explosion. Peace spread through the house, and the tension drained from Faraday’s body, and he leaned into Laura, head resting briefly on her shoulder before he straightened.

“Thank you,” he said briefly. There might have been a bit of shine in his eyes, or it could be a reflection of the dancing light of the candles Laura had lit in the wreath on the counter.

They had glazed ham and mashed potatoes and Brussel sprouts and orange and celery salad, and a cranberry eggnog Jell-O ring for dessert. Normally, their Christmas meal would have been Swanson turkey TV dinners, but Laura had used the excuse of their guest to splurge.

Once they’d given dinner a chance to settle, they bundled up and let Laura lead them up and down the streets. Her excitement at the nativities and snowmen, lit by starlight and the soft glow of strings of tiny bulbs, was hard to resist. When Paterson stopped to retie his shoe, she took Faraday’s hand and dragged him ahead. He laughed at something she said, and for the first time he seemed wholly present, his eyes taking in what was in front of them all instead of some distant, remembered scene.

By the time they returned to the house it was late, and instead of letting Faraday walk home in the dark, Laura insisted on making up the sofa.

When Paterson woke the next morning, the sight of a shock of red hair peeking out from a nest of black and white blankets brought a smile to his lips. He tiptoed around the kitchen, managing to boil the water for his coffee and fix his cereal without disturbing their guest. As he sat there in the quiet, with his coffee and his notebook, he wrote one last line.

_a man rides the bus on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays_

_he stands, or sits, in his own space_

_a quiet bubble in the bustle of the world_

_he rides by himself even when the bus is full_

_alone in the crowd wherever he goes_

_what passes outside the windows for him isn’t what others see_

_it’s as if he’s looking for something he’s lost_

_or someone_

_when he talks it’s as if he’s weighing every possible word before they leave his lips_

_like each syllable might be a part of the thing he is looking for_

_and if he speaks them then he will be even more lost_

_when he does speak it’s as much to himself as you_

_and even though he never says the word you can hear the question_

_where am I? where have I come, out away from everything I’ve ever known?_

_and you come to realize he’s left a part of himself somewhere else_

_and is waiting for it to find him again_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to say hi, [check out my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/profile) for where I’m currently hanging out on this here internet thing.


End file.
